


head first

by jenhyung



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenhyung/pseuds/jenhyung
Summary: Youngho crushes hard.
Relationships: Suh Youngho | Johnny/Qian Kun
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [2_donghyuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2_donghyuck/gifts).



> for [@fullsun_shine](https://twitter.com/FullSun_SHINE)! thank you for requesting!

you've got a hold of me / i'm diving in head first / hoping I could love you so recklessly / it hit me like a tidal wave I'm falling off / you got me hypnotized, mesmerized / wrapped around your finger till the lights go low

([head first](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwH3Cngujng))

–

The sky is an endless canvas. From a dusky blue over the mountains to the pomegranate-tangerine bleed over the North Lake, Seo Youngho brings the viewfinder to his eye and tries to capture a tenth of the evening’s beauty. He takes a few shots, catches the silhouettes of a few birds crossing above him, then pulls the camera away to simply appreciate its beauty.

When the colors fade into night, the stars peek from behind the clouds, and Youngho knows he should head back before he misses curfew.

The access to the rooftop isn’t entirely restricted, but Youngho still looks both ways down the hall before stepping under the light. Flicking through the lot of today’s shots, he strides through the maze of halls, already thinking of which photos to toss into the proverbial trash–

It goes flying.

Youngho feels the bump against his shoulder not a second later. He shoots his arms out on reflex, camera thudding back against his chest when he lets it go to steady the boy falling quite literally into his arms. It’s then that he registers the sharp pain on his chin where the boy’s forehead had very spectacularly smacked into.

“–sorry, oh my–I’m–”

“It’s okay,” Youngho rushes to say.

He helps the boy up, gaping at the flood of loose papers now scattered across the hardwood floors. When he crouches down to help gather them together, he recognizes them to be sheet music, like the ones he used to have to read when his mother made him take piano lessons. They’re scribbled in pencil and in ink, in black and in red, annotated with cursive writings and characters Youngho can’t read.

“Sorry,” he hears a soft voice say. The boy is a few feet away, hastily picking the sheet music up and tucking it into the white file it’d slipped out of, “I wasn’t watching where I was going, I didn’t think I’d run into anyone on this side of the building, I–”

“It’s fine,” Youngho says, before the boy can apologize for more things he didn’t need to. He neatly arranges the stack of papers he’d managed to put together, holding it out for the boy to take, “I wasn’t looking either so–”

The boy nods, thick brows framing his angled jaw. A pair of full-rim, round-shaped glasses sits comfortably on the bridge of his nose, just large enough to articulate the fullness of his almond eyes. Youngho notices the small mole–a beauty mark of sorts–under his right brow.

“Thank you,” the boy murmurs, hugging his armful of papers and struggling to stand. Youngho steadies him with a soft touch to the elbow, to which the boy nods once more, grateful. He starts to backpedal in the direction he was heading towards, cheeks a pretty cherry pink, “Sorry–again, and thank you.”

Youngho raises a hand awkwardly, and it’s sufficient for a parting goodbye. The boy turns on his heels and scurries off, as quick as he’d ran into Youngho, his jacket flapping as he goes. His honey brown hair bounces with every step; Youngho watches until he’s turning the corner, feeling out of his body in a sort of insentient manner.

He scratches his nape and turns back around, thinks nothing of it.

–

Lee’s Academy of Art Excellence is one of the country’s most prestigious centers for professional training and research in the performing, cinematic, and media arts. Located away from the city center and outwards towards the greater seas, the Academy is known for their particular board of well-accredited staff and the wide range of facilities students can utilize during their stay. It boards most students on for a four-year program, provides small professor to student ratio, and on-campus housing for all years.

The school grounds span across several castles and buildings of Norman Romanesque architecture with one central structure–known and referred by students as simply _Lee_ –surrounded by four low-rise residential dorms. Not too far of a distance away, Lee Academy’s also dedicated several other plots of the unbounded land unrelated to the arts–such as the Observatory and the Great Field.

Named after four of Founding Father Lee’s most favored students, the residential dorms are home to students for the full four years of their education. Each student is assigned to a room equipped with the basic necessities and are free to furnish the place however they prefer, as it will be their safe haven for the entirety of their time at the Academy. Once the year’s cohort graduates, their rooms are cleared out for the new batch of first-years to move into.

From dance and performance studies to the open arts, from cinema studies and film to photography, from narrative and dramatic writing to recorded music, the Academy is the place to be for the youngest and most brilliant minds to learn and grow. With their student body comprised to hundreds of nationalities, the working language on school grounds is English, with exceptions to specific teaching units–such as Chinese Dance in Theatre and the studies of Japanese Classical Music.

The school year begins in September.

–  
  


“Yuta–it’s already nine.”

Breakfast stops at ten.

Youngho rolls his eyes when he hears a groan, followed by a litany of grumbled curses. Mornings have always been tough on Nakamoto Yuta, fellow fourth-year and Youngho’s immediate next-door neighbor. They’ve been best friends since move-in day, which only further justifies why he’s been tasked with the daily chore of waking the boy up.

“–understand why they won’t take my suggestions seriously.” Yuta is saying this as the door to 3B swings open, revealing platinum blonde hair very much comparable to a bird’s nest, “Seriously, four years in this damned place and they can’t do _one_ thing right.”

Youngho chooses not to argue, knowing of Yuta’s never-ending battle with the administration office on the topic of having all-day breakfast in the Dining Hall. He gestures to Yuta’s hair, “It’s the first day of school.”

“Ah, yes,” Yuta sighs. He snatches a baseball cap and puts it on backwards, shuffles out into the hallway and shuts the door.

Over the summer, nobody ever really worried about appearances going around school grounds. It was mostly the graduating class that stayed the three months to work on their final year projects, or just clock in some extra time with professors. But with the rest of the years returning, Yuta’d probably be better fending off odd looks by hiding that little nest of his.

“Taeyong’s on Prefect duty,” Youngho says.

Yuta nods and they head down the stairwell, skipping past the second floor where they would usually pick up the third of their little trio, Lee Taeyong.

The hallways are stuffier now that everyone’s back, but Youngho finds that he doesn’t mind the familiar faces and amicable _Hello_ s.

“It’s those graduation goggles,” Yuta says, noting the look of serenity Youngho failed to conceal. He leads them under archways and across a few open grass patches, “Don’t fall for them, Seo.”

“I know,” Youngho mumbles. He did enjoy his time at the Academy, but there’s also a world out there he’s been dying to explore. The past four years have been great, but Youngho wanted _more_. Still, “I’m gonna miss this place though.”

“I’m not,” Yuta says. He stretches, yawns through his words, “I’m out of here the moment we’re done–I’ve looked at the same walls for too long, I can’t do it anymore.”

Youngho shoots him a flat look, “Easy for you to say.”

Having spent most of his third year working off-site as an independent video editor, Yuta’s already been coveted by the largest news and media company in the country. It’s not a surprise, not with his expressivity and technical dexterity when it came to video editing. He’d signed a two-year contract set to kick in the moment he leaves the Academy, complete with a decent pay and an apartment close to the flagship office.

The apartment’s furnished from utensils to bedsheets, but the first of it Yuta had exclaimed over was the fact it’s a block away from a McDonalds–which meant all-day breakfast.

“Really, the only reason I accepted the job,” Yuta had said.

Aside from that peculiar perk, having that job lined up for him meant complete job security for the next two years, something Youngho’s rather envious of. Most graduates spent their early years in the working world flopping around like fresh fish on a summer’s sidewalk, unsure of direction and lacking opportunities.

Youngho was not at all looking forward to that.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Yuta says now, confidence boundless. The sea of students funnel through a grand arch, high to a hundred feet in the air, sides supported by massive columns, “I’ve seen your work.”

“You haven’t seen the work of a hundred other people,” Youngho points out. He isn’t usually one to put himself down on a Monday morning; it must be the school year, “My photographs don’t exactly scream ‘Please hire me!’”

Yuta shrugs, “They don’t have to.”

The conversation ends there as they take their usual seats near the back of the hall, where the other fourth-years have already started to dominate, segregating themselves from the rest of the student body. It’s a trivial display of hierarchy but a culture at the Academy, one Youngho never really cared to read too much into.

Already the breakfast spread is twice as luxurious as the summer’s menu–pancakes and waffles, sausages and beef patties, toast and home fries, eggs scrambled and sunny side. Youngho wastes no time in plunking himself down and plating a little bit of everything for the first round. Across him, Yuta picks a yogurt tub and scoops himself some granola.

“So, I was thinking–”

Youngho stops listening when, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Taeyong running towards them at full speed. He’s turning to brace himself for inevitable impact when Taeyong hobbles to seat himself beside Youngho, very much smacking into Youngho’s side,

“–understand why he’s _here_. He’s not supposed to be here, I–”

Yuta shows no ire at being interrupted, “Good morning to you too.”

Youngho flinches when Taeyong ferociously grapples for the pancakes, stabbing the stack of them roughly and flinging them onto his plate. He continues to mumble under his breath, and Youngho moves the tall glasses of orange juice out of Taeyong’s reach, in fear they might end up across the stone floors.

It’s when his best friend’s erratic pancake-stabbing catches the attention of Hong Jisoo from two tables over that Youngho asks, “Okay–what is going on? Who’s here?”

“Who else!” Taeyong hisses. He snatches the bottle of maple syrup and drizzles an unglorifying amount over them, “Who else could it be, seriously?”

“Ah,” Yuta nods, “him.”

Youngho’s about to ask again when his mind clicks because, really, there’s only a single soul that could ever rile Taeyong up like this.

“–never thought I’d have to see him again,” Taeyong goes on. He shoves bites of pancakes between his lips, speaks without chewing, “I don’t understand–why is he _here_? Why is he back? Didn’t he say he was leaving forever?”

“Come on,” Yuta scoffs. “You can’t seriously still be clinging onto the idea of hating him.”

“It’s not an _idea_ ,” Taeyong grimaces. He chews angrily, “I hate Kim Doyoung. I truly do.”

“We know,” Youngho says slowly. At Taeyong’s syrup-drenched lips he hands the boy a napkin, “Didn’t he leave a year ago? To another university?”

Yuta hums around his spoon, “Julliard.”

“Whatever,” Taeyong grumbles. He shakes his head, “Why are we even talking about him? I don’t want to be wasting my breath on Kim Doyoung.”

“You brought him up,” Youngho points out. He adds, “Quite vehemently, actually.”

“And he’s back now? For good?” Taeyong nods. Yuta raises his brow. “You know this because…?”

“I was on patrol,” Taeyong stabs another pancake onto his plate. “Around the third-years’ residence hall. It’s so hard not to notice that annoying voice of his, nagging at his friends to hurry on for breakfast,” he smears the pancake with butter, “I could hear him from miles away.”

“Says more about you than Kim Doyoung, I reckon,” Yuta sniffs. He’s unfazed when Taeyong glares at him, “Then what? Did he see you? Did you say hello?”

“Of course not.” Taeyong clicks his tongue, “Stop making it sound like some–sappy reunion. It was awkward, he looked at me so I walked away, okay?”

Youngho blinks, watches the conversation bounce off Taeyong and Yuta seamlessly. He didn’t quite know Kim Doyoung like Yuta did, didn’t know the whole narrative from start to finish. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Youngho’d always been terrible at giving advice, which had Taeyong running off to Yuta instead.

"I don't get it,” Youngho says at some point. Two pairs of eyes fall on him immediately, “I mean–weren’t you happy that he left? All the two of you did was bicker anyway, right?”

They share a look Youngho doesn’t understand. Yuta sighs, “It’s complicated.”

Youngho straightens, scanning the hall for Kim Doyoung. He remembers indistinctly how the third-year looked; black-haired with an oval face, bright eyes that turned up at the sides, almost indistinguishable from those fluffy rabbits that roamed free near the North Lakes.

Tables away he spots Doyoung, catching sight of his wide smile quickly. He’s seated with two others, chattering away amicably over their breakfast spread. Youngho hadn’t seen Doyoung with other friends before; his memories of the younger boy were always of either him alone or of him going off against Taeyong in another argument. They were both on the prefectorial board since their respective first years, which had them working together outside of their daily curriculum.

Aside from being Taeyong’s rival of some sort, Youngho didn’t really know all that much about Doyoung.

With Doyoung now are two others Youngho assumes are third-years too. Across from Doyoung is a dark-haired boy with feline eyes, a round nose, and thin lips. He’s speaking animatedly, hands flying as he goes, waving his fork and knife madly in the air. On Doyoung’s right, away from the fourth-years, is another student, working away at his plate of waffles.

Youngho cranes his neck to get a better look, that shade of honey brown all too familiar–

_Oh._

Taeyong smacks him loudly on the thigh, has Youngho jolting into place, “You’re being so _obvious_ , oh my god.” He purposefully turns his head away from where Doyoung clearly isn’t looking at them, “It’s already bad enough he’s back–I don’t need him thinking that _I’m_ thinking about him.”

“What?” Youngho rubs where Taeyong’d hit him hard, trying to soothe the sting, “Why _are_ you thinking about him?”

Taeyong grumbles under his breath and stabs another pancake.

Youngho looks to Yuta for help.

But all Yuta does is sigh, “It’s complicated.”

–

At the Academy, teaching units were divided into two categories: central units and peripheral units. Each student is required to take sufficient central units pertaining to their specified area of interest and are allowed to take a minimum of four peripheral units that are unrelated to their specializations.

Youngho had thought Yuta to be insane to cram most of his units in the first three years of their time at the Academy, but watching Yuta’s smirk as he skips off to take a morning nap has Youngho rethinking his choices. He’d chosen instead to complete his central units first, leaving the peripherals for his final year so he’d have more time to prepare for the job hunt; but he’d been assigned to the most boring of units and he’s only got an appointment with Professor Um to reallocate himself next week.

It means his first three mornings sessions have him stuck with Professor Kim in Philosophy and Art.

“Please, _please_ take this class with me,” Youngho had begged Taeyong.

“And pass up on sessions with Lee Taemin?” Taeyong wasn’t even apologetic, “Not a chance.”

It’s how Youngho finds himself walking to Philosophy and Art on his own, navigating through halls he’d never even knew existed. He’s around the same corner four times by the time he sees Professor Kim walk by. Youngho smiles politely and gets a nod in return; he follows Professor Kim and tries–for the love of god–to commit every crook and cranny to memory.

He slips into class after Professor Kim, taking an empty seat near the back. It’s a small classroom with only a handful of students scattered around, not quite like the larger lectures or workshops Youngho’s used to attending. Almost everyone has a notebook and pen out, textbook laid open on the desk before them.

Youngho feels like a first-year all over again, completely lost and obviously out of place.

He’s debating making a run for it when a boy takes the empty seat in front of him smoothly. Youngho blinks when he realizes it’s that same color of honey brown again. It’s unmistakable, having seen it twice now.

Honey boy–Youngho’s brain so pleasantly presents–sets his book bag on the floor, retrieves his notebook and that same textbook everyone else has with them. He brandishes a small case of pens too, and another journal. The journal’s smaller, old and tattered with paper sticking out the sides, held together tight by a thin strip of elastic on the side.

On the bottom are those same characters Youngho fails to recognize.

“Alright,” Professor Kim clears his throat. Youngho looks up, momentarily forgetting about the boy and his consistent reappearance in Youngho’s path, “Welcome to Philosophy and Art. Before we begin today, I’m counting only twelve people in this class and I have fifteen of you here on my list, so–just take the next five or so minutes to befriend the people around you.”

Youngho cringes inwardly.

“This is a discussion-based seminar,” Professor Kim goes on, ignoring the slumped shoulders and audibly groans, “So you’re going to have to talk to at least one other person in this class. Aside from me, of course.”

He gives the class a dismissive wave.

Youngho holds his breath when Honey boy sighs. He looks down the empty desks on his right, then surveys the group of students collecting a few desks near the front of the class. He’s about to stand to join them when Youngho’s hand moves without thought, hitting the back of Honey boy’s chair,

“–hey.”

Honey boy turns around, stares at where Youngho’s still holding on to the back of his seat. He looks up at Youngho, and it’s a moment later that his eyes flicker with recognition. A tinge of pink colors his cheeks, again barely hidden behind his gold frames.

“Sorry,” Youngho says, retracts his hand. He gestures for Honey boy to sit back down, smiling small when he does, “I just thought–we could–er, pair up. For discussions.”

Honey boy considers this. He clears his throat quietly, “Sure.”

His voice is soft and sweet, predictably comparable to honey.

“Seo Youngho,” he introduces himself. Honey boy turns in his seat, back ramrod straight, stiffer than a board. He nods for Youngho to go on, “I’m a fourth-year and I–don’t know why I’m taking this class, really.”

Honey boy doesn’t laugh at his terrible attempt at being relatable, so the laugh dies quick in Youngho’s throat. He twiddles his thumbs, looks at the spot above Youngho’s head when he speaks, “My name’s Qian Kun, just Kun is fine.”

Youngho nods, mentally rolls the name off the tip of his tongue.

_Kun_.

“I’m in my third year, and my specialization’s in music,” Kun says, eyes rolling up as he thought. Youngho studies him, noticing the way rigidity in Kun’s shoulders, like he thinks his every breath is watched, “Mostly recorded music, but I’m currently pursuing composing and songwriting.”

“Wow,” Youngho muses. He didn’t have many friends in the school of music aside from Taeyong, who’s working on having songwriting as a sub-specialization. Kun looks, waits. Youngho gathers his thoughts quickly, “Oh. Oh, right–I–my specialization’s in photography and imaging arts.”

Kun licks his lips, “You–had a camera with you that night.”

Youngho gapes, lost. Thankfully he remembers bumping into Kun yesterday night, and it’s not some other night of scandalous affairs Kun’s reminding him of.

“Yeah–yes,” Youngho mumbles. He swallows thickly, throat suddenly drier than a cotton field, “And you were holding onto sheet music, weren’t you?”

“I was.” Kun raises a brow, “Do you read music too?”

“Not really,” Youngho says, sheepish. He hooks his ankles together under the table, “I took a couple of piano lessons and got through the basics of it, but I wasn’t good enough to take it seriously. As a career, I mean.”

Kun’s features soften, “You don’t play anymore?”

“Not as a hobby, no.” Youngho doesn’t know what to make of Kun’s reaction, “I think I only really know one song off the top of my head so, really, booking one of the piano studios here would be a waste on me.”

“Fair enough,” Kun tells him.

Professor Kim calls for attention then, effectively laying a halt on their conversation. Kun is turning back in his seat instantaneously, sparing Youngho not another glance. Youngho’d thought they were on the road to being friends–acquaintances, classmates–but Kun doesn’t give him the time of day for the rest of their morning session.

Youngho is thinking about the photographs he’s yet to edit from last night’s shoot when Professor Kim wraps the three-hour long seminar with a reminder for everyone to prepare for their next session with the required readings. The sound of books being shut and chairs being scratched against the stone floors drags Youngho from free of his daydream.

He’s barely returned to his sense when Kun stands, heaves his book bag over a shoulder and walks with long strides out of class. No goodbye nod nor a cordial, tight-lipped smile. He watches until Kun is down the hall and round the first corner, honey brown hair bouncing as he does.

Youngho wonders.

–

It’s after tea when Youngho reunites with Yuta and Taeyong. He spots them already sprawled under a large tree near the North Lakes, a bit of a way from the other students soaking up sunshine. Some of them are lying on picnic mats, others against the grass without a care for the bugs in them; some of them are accompanied by books, most are surrounded by snacks and fruit stolen from the Dining Hall.

“What’s up, nerd?” Yuta calls when Youngho sits on the empty spot of Taeyong’s four-year-old beach blanket. He offers Youngho a bite of the apple he’s working through, “Hungry?”

“No,” Youngho deadpans. He groans, stretching his legs out, sore after spending his afternoon session of Printing and Processing in the darkroom, “My back is killing me.”

“Ah, aging,” Yuta sighs. “A physical sign of our slow march towards death.”

“Come on,” Taeyong nags, flicking Yuta on the thigh. He’s midway through some stretches and still in his dance clothes (a baggy shirt and matching yoga pants), “It’s such a nice afternoon out, don’t ruin it for the rest of us with your philosophical musings.”

Youngho starts to laugh, but Yuta turns towards him, “Speaking of philosophy, how was your session with Professor Kim?”

“Boring,” Youngho says. He grabs his camera from his backpack, holding it steady over Yuta to capture a candid shot of the apple stuck between his teeth. “He mentioned a whole lot of names and a bunch more in Greek or Latin or whatever–I couldn’t even fall asleep because he was so loud.”

Taeyong stretches his arms behind his head, “I’m assuming you’re going to request for a reallocation?”

“You’ve assumed right,” Youngho mumbles. He moves to lie beside Yuta, flat on his torso with the viewfinder to his eye, “I hope your classes went better than mine?”

“Did it!” Yuta chimes in, laying the sarcasm on thick. He dodges when Taeyong kicks at his shin, “He hasn’t stopped talking about it,” Yuta snorts, “I was hoping you’d save me from hearing him recount his morning for the fiftieth time today.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes, “Just because you had a slow day doesn’t mean the rest of us have to, you know?”

“I had just a fine time with Jaehyun, thank you very much.”

Jung Jaehyun, second-year and Yuta’s boyfriend of three months. They had an eventful summer falling in love and Youngho was (almost) regrettably there for every second of it. He saw Jaehyun on their floor of the fourth-year dorms more than he did Kim Youngmin, who lived across from Youngho in 3C.

Youngho had spent most of the summer alongside Jaehyun and Yuta and their cocoon of new love since Taeyong had been diligently refining his choreographies for one of the summer classes he wanted to take; Jaehyun was innocent and cheerful and just plain excited every time Youngho saw him, honestly not unlike a golden retriever. He’d gotten used to Jaehyun as an extension of Yuta, it’s almost unusual he hasn’t yet seen Jaehyun around–though, that is to be expected, now that classes have started once again.

He makes a mental note to have Jaehyun come by for a rematch of their last basketball match (to which Youngho lost only because Yuta tackled him from behind and refused to let go until Jaehyun scored).

“Jaehyun, Jaehyun, _Jaehyun_ ,” Taeyong mimics, sounding nothing like Yuta. “Is your boyfriend seriously all you can talk about?”

Yuta lifts his head to glare at Taeyong, “Considering that I _have_ one, I’ll talk about him as much as I want.”

Taeyong ignores Yuta to scoot over to Youngho’s left, eyes childlike and bright, “ _You_ would not believe it–Lee Taemin is just–oh my god, his dance is indescribable!”

On Youngho’s right, Yuta mumbles, “You didn’t seem to have any problem describing it the past forty-five minutes.”

And it’s like sitting with a pair of brothers, hearing Yuta try and rile Taeyong up, having Taeyong try and smack Yuta across the back of his head. Youngho sighs and lets them bicker over him, bringing the camera to his eye and taking a couple of test shots across the lawn. He rolls the dials and catches a blue bird with a pale orange down its front, wings fluttering as it flies to rest on a branch some trees away.

He watches through the viewfinder, spots a couple of other fourth-years–Yoon Jeonghan and Choi Seungcheol–on a quilted mat not far away. He takes a couple of snaps when Seungcheol moves to crouch behind Jeonghan, tying his boyfriend’s hair up with a periwinkle scrunchie, clicking away when they erupt in fits of giggles.

Flicking through the photographs, he finds one with them looking all too good for a candid photograph. He files it away for editing later, reminds himself to show it to Jeonghan later–they’ve always loved being in Youngho’s photographs and it never failed to make Youngho smile whenever they gushed over them.

“You’re going to get in trouble one day,” Yuta had said once.

Youngho pulled his camera away, “What’re you talking about?”

“Taking pictures of people like that,” Yuta sipped on his orange juice. He nodded towards a first-year passing by, books overflowing in his hands, glasses askew. Youngho’d snapped a quick picture, loving the light and shadow play around him, “Some people don’t like that.”

“It’s not like I’m going to post them anywhere,” Youngho shrugged. If he ever wanted to have them developed, he’d always asked for permission. He lifted the camera again, “Besides, most people like to have their picture taken.”

The memory fades to nothing when Youngho finds again that shade of honey taunting him. His elbows nearly slip free on the blanket when he spots Kun in his viewfinder, nose deep in a book on his lap. His glasses are on the verge of falling off and his bottom lip is bit lightly between his teeth.

A gust of wind rolls by, ruffling honey.

_Click._

Youngho takes a few more when Kun looks up towards the sky, hand lifting up to shield his eyes from the sun as he admired the skies. He closes his eyes and takes in the light, and Youngho very nearly throws up the scone he scarfed down during lunch.

His hands shake when Yuta nudges him in the ribs, “Hey. You okay?”

“Hm?” Youngho coughs when his throat crackles, lowering the camera and spinning to sit up. His back is towards now, face warm for absolutely _no_ reason, “I mean, yeah, what?”

Yuta shoots him a look, “Sounded like you were about to need the Heimlich.”

“I don’t,” Youngho says, very stiffly, very oddly.

Taeyong stares at him, then turns to look at what Youngho had his lenses pointed at, “What were you just–oh _god_.”

That’s enough to have Yuta turning too, “What?”

“It’s him again,” Taeyong groans. He buries himself voluntarily into Youngho, very much hiding. Youngho turns back, breath returning to him when he sees that Kun is joined by two others–Kim Doyoung and the other boy from before. Taeyong whines, “Why is he everywhere I go? Why can’t he just–disappear again?”

“Well,” Yuta sighs, rolling on his back, already bored, “We all _live_ on campus–there’s only a finite number of places we can all go at some point.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Taeyong huffs. He pushes himself off Youngho to get a better look, then drops again on Youngho’s thigh, punching it weakly, “I don’t care. I hate him.”

“Thank you for taking it out on me,” Youngho says dryly.

“And who are those people he’s with anyway?” Taeyong grumbles, “He never hung out with them before, so why is he hanging out with them now?”

Yuta hums, “I thought you said you didn’t care?”

“I don’t!”

Taeyong sits up, head nearly knocking into Youngho’s face, blonde hair all in mess now. He whips around to stare at Doyoung again, so Youngho turns, following his line of sight. Under one of the very large willow trees across the lakeshore, Kun sits with Doyoung and their third friend, all of whom are now staring right at Youngho.

He turns away quickly, face aflame at having been caught looking.

“What do they _want_?” Taeyong complains, wringing his thin hands, “Do they want to fight? They want to fight. I’m going to fight them, I’m going to–”

“Will you please relax?” Yuta chastises. He pushes Taeyong on the shoulder with the tip of his foot, has the smaller boy falling back on his haunches, “No one wants to fight you, Taeyong, okay–look, they’re not even staring anymore.”

“Whatever,” Taeyong huffs, clambering to settle back down in Youngho’s lap, hiding his face away, “I could take them anyway, whatever. Whatever.”

Yuta snorts, “Whatever you say, Yong.”

Taeyong mutters something unintelligible, conceding to silence. Youngho looks between him and Yuta, exhaling heavily at the sudden grant of peaceful silence. He picks up his camera and sifts through the photographs again, starring a couple for editing later. He’s clicking between two similar shots when there’s an itch on the back of his neck–like a pair of holes burning into his nape.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have turned around.

But he does, and it’s Kun that’s looking at him now.

Youngho doesn’t know what to do, not with those sharp eyes on him. He raises a hand, giving Kun a small wave and an even smaller smile. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he certainly doesn’t expect Kun’s eyes to fall on Taeyong’s burrowed self on Youngho’s lap, then back to Youngho’s face. There’s a moment of pause between them, a tangible static in the air–then Kun is turning away, nose in the pages of his book.

Youngho lets his gaze linger for a second, brows pinching.

He doesn’t know if the tips of Kun’s ears are red, or if it’s just a trick of sunlight.

–

Over the past three years, Youngho’d say he’s put in the effort to decorate his room.

The single bed is the first thing to the left of the door frame with blue quilted covers and navy fitted sheets. There are at least eight plushies stuffed along the side of it, squished in the small crook between the length of the bed and the wall. He never really hugged to sleep–other than a special whale one his mother gifted him when he was younger–but he still liked having them surround him when he slept; it was comfy like that.

On his walls are posters and photographs–polaroids and developed films and photo prints–stuck against the once-boring white walls with ripped pieces of paper duct tape. They weren’t allowed to ruin the walls with regular tape or hooks or nails, and some of them have been up there for a _long_ time–like the first picture he took with both Taeyong and Yuta as first-years; he’s got his fingers crossed that none of the paint would peel when he’s tasked to take them off at the end of his time at the Academy.

At the end of his bed, and virtually every other spot in the room, is his working area. It’s an organized mess that, but Youngho would admit to not being able to distinguish one section from the next. There’s a vintage vinyl player at the corner, stacked atop a growing pile of records–The Beatles, Michael Jackson, some Epik High–though he never uses it.

Beside it is a small nightstand repurposed to fit all of his film gadgets and trinkets; a stand for his mirrorless digital camera–the first of his small collection he’d bought with his own money and the one camera that’s always on him–another for his film camera, some spare batteries and lenses, a cup holding some Sharpies and an obnoxiously large paper clip.

It’s nothing fancy but it’s been home and Youngho’s glad it’s where he gets to sleep every night.

Youngho groans when he sits heavily on his desk chair, dropping his backpack onto his bed unceremoniously. He rests his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment to watch the fan whir, letting his mind sit empty for a moment or two.

Deciding to clock in some time editing before his shower, he inhales deeply and gathers enough energy to fumble for his camera. Plucking the memory card, he slips it into the slot on the side of his Mac, shakes the mouse to wake the screen. It’d been a tough journey convincing the Academy’s administrative team on just _why_ he needed one of the school’s Mac desktops in his room, but he managed to do it without too much flirting, save Madam Oh’s frail heart.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters.

The rainbow ring spins and spins, reading the data slower than an eighty-year-old would.

He’s about to make a break for his bed when the window comes to life, revealing all of today’s catch. The burst of colors is enough to have Youngho smiling. He fishes for his headphones, hastily shoving them on and swiping through his list, playing whatever comes first.

Good music’s essential to good edits, he believes.

As the first strums of _Closed on Sunday_ fade in, Youngho starts sifting through his collection of sunset shots from the night before.

He edits as he goes, deleting the ones he doesn’t like. The rows of sunsets eventually switch over to the setting of this morning in the Dining Hall, the first of it one of Yuta hungrily reaching for a yogurt tub. There aren’t much from this morning and the rows transition from a camera shake of the hallway to another of Yuta and the apple between his teeth. His eyes are scrunched up, hand lifted to cast a pretty shadow over his face.

Youngho decides to save this one.

Having spent the most time with Yuta and Taeyong, they were more than often the subject of his photographs. Youngho liked best to capture candid moments–like the time Taeyong tripped over nothing and Youngho’d managed to catch the younger boy almost a foot in the air, or the time he saw Yuta sleeping with his head on Jaehyun’s lap and Youngho’d taken a shot from behind, overlooking the Great Lake with their silhouettes framed perfectly.

He continues on, picks a couple more of Seungcheol and Jeonghan.

It’s then that a picture of Kun pops up.

Youngho nearly falls off his seat.

He’d forgotten he’d ever taken the photo. But the feelings come rushing back as if it’d never really left, a stuffy grip in Youngho’s chest. His cheeks tingle the longer he stares at digital Kun, eyes draping over the slope of Kun’s nose, the dip where his lips are parted.

Youngho blinks. Blinks again.

He catches himself wondering if he’d ever feel so– _perverse_ , scrutinizing a photograph so closely. Shaking the feeling away, Youngho moves the mouse over to the trash icon,

and stops.

It’s that shade of honey, already settled itself snug in the center of his mind. It’s the long, dark lashes behind his glasses, the round tip of his nose, the curve of his jaw. It’s that burn Youngho gets in his chest, the fuzziness in his eyes, the cotton in his throat.

It’s that first flicker of–attraction.

He snatches his towel off the back of his desk chair and hurries off for a cold shower.

Youngho edits the photographs of Kun well into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s late October when they’re trudging down to the grocery store.

While the small corner store on school grounds is well-stocked up with the basic necessities, the only other place Academy students can head to for food and amenities is a lone store a fifteen-minute walk away. There isn’t much else near the Academy, which meant that it’s the only place they can visit if they were to tire of the food from the Dining Hall.

“I can’t believe it’s getting cold already,” Taeyong says, sighing at the heated store’s warm welcome. He pulls his hood off, shaking his messy hair free, “It was summer, like, yesterday.”

“I know,” Youngho hums. He loved autumn, but summer had colors fall didn’t.

“Good that we’re having hotpot tonight then.” Yuta pulls a rickety shopping cart free and turns left towards the aisle of fresh foods, “Also, Jaehyun managed to score one of those small meeting rooms so we don’t have to hide out in Taeyong’s room anymore.”

Taeyong makes a face, “Why is it always my room?”

“Because,” Yuta studies the row of _baechu_ s, “I don’t want my room dirty and if we went to Youngho’s room, he’d freak if we got any of it over his expensive camera gear or whatever.”

Youngho chimes in, “Very true.”

They grab the usual loot; vegetables and frozen meat, dumplings and tofu too. Taeyong shuffles off in search of snacks and dessert, leaving the rest of the menu up to Youngho and Yuta. They roam the aisles, picking enough for four off the shelves, slowly filling their cart.

“What are you, by the way?” Yuta steps on the back of Youngho’s shoe to get his attention, “For this year’s Halloween Night?”

“First of all, ouch,” Youngho grumbles. He steadies himself against one of the shelves, shoving his foot back into his sneaker, “And I’m on photog duty this term, so–I’m going to just be me.”

The Academy brings up opportunities to the student body to encourage the use and practice of their skills; terms were often littered with events catered to each specialization–dance showcases, musicals, theatre performances–in order to provide every student a fair chance of testing their own abilities.

“Boring. You can still dress up,” Yuta says. He leans on the grips of the cart, “All you’re going to do is walk around with a camera anyway.”

Youngho shoots him a look, “I’ll make sure all the ugly pictures of you end up in the yearbook.”

“Good luck finding a single ugly shot of me.” Yuta waves a hand at Youngho, rejecting his attempt to rebut, “Just get a bowtie or something, you could go as that butler guy that works for Batman–what was that guy’s name? Albert?”

“Alfred,” Youngho corrects. He didn’t really think much about Halloween Night if he were honest. Yuta and Jaehyun have got some really elaborate costumes planned that Yuta spent most of his free time researching on, and Taeyong hadn’t mentioned going either. Youngho didn’t really appreciate the idea of dressing up, he’d rather be comfortable anyway.

“Boring,” is what Yuta says to that. 

Youngho shrugs.

“–whenever we get here, you know?”

A voice floats over the shelves, sinking down where Youngho and Yuta are starting a debate on whether splurging on _ddeok_ ’s a good idea when they’ve already got a full cart of carbs. Yuta tosses it their pile and ignores Youngho’s reasoning against them, resuming their leisure pace around the store.

“I mean, my wallet!” That same voice is loud. Shrill, “It’s as if I’ve willingly cut a hole through the bottom, I’m just losing money and it’s just ridiculous, I swear to god.”

And it’s really a best friend thing, the sort of telepathic connection they have. Yuta shoots Youngho a knowing look and they inch towards where the complaints are coming from, both of them too nosy for their own good. Wordlessly, they turn down the next aisle full of pasta sauce and other mix-ins.

The recognition is immediate, even with his back to Youngho.

He’d recognize that shade of honey anywhere.

Since their last encounter on the North Lakes, Youngho hadn’t seen Kun around as much as he did on their first day of classes–or as much he’d hoped to. In the next morning session they had together, Kun was already seated along the front row of desks, surrounded by the rest of their classmates Youngho hadn’t bothered to get to know. It was a prick at Youngho’s heart (and pride) when he saw Kun picking instead to sit the furthest from where Youngho sat as if their brief encounter weeks ago didn’t happen. He’d been so absorbed by the fact he could very well be ignored that he skipped out on visiting Professor Um on his request for an allocation out of Philosophy and Art.

Philosophy and Art was the only place Youngho knew he’d see Kun in the flesh and some childish wedge in his heart wasn’t yet ready to let that go.

Though, the lack of divine intervention didn’t stop him from sneaking a couple of photographs whenever he saw Kun in the Dining Hall or the residence halls or the study lounge or the courtyard by the obnoxiously large statue of Founding Father Lee. It didn’t stop his heart from pounding madly whenever he caught a glimpse of honey, the pain of going unnoticed by Kun amplifying the growing desire to _be_ noticed, the attraction that’d once started out as a tiny bean now a complete jungle of pure infatuation.

It’s one big fat crush and Youngho thinks himself to be going crazy.

“You can’t let me buy anything today!” It’s the same boy Youngho’d seen Kun and Doyoung with, the third of their trio, “Seriously!”

Yuta’s jaw drops when he realizes just who’s in their midst. He pretends to look through the row of sauces, tugging Youngho along.

They keep silent.

“It’s food, Yongqin.” Kun’s voice is low, saccharine– _how_ , Youngho doesn’t know, but it is–and kind, “It’s okay if you spend on them, it’s not like you’re throwing money away on something useless.”

“You should see how fast he goes through those rolls of Oreos,” Doyoung scoffs, standing by Kun’s side with a shopping basket hooked on the crook of his elbow. “Three in a night, Qin, I mean–how many of them are in a single tube? Fifty?”

“It was one time!” Yongqin throws his hands up, defending himself valiantly, “And it was a _Lord of the Rings_ marathon, I wasn’t going to go through it without snacks.”

“Just get whatever you want, Qin,” Kun advises. He continues down the aisle, failing to notice neither Youngho nor Yuta, “And don’t eat them all in a single go.”

“I said it was one–”

Yongqin’s words jolt to a stop when Taeyong walks right into view on the other end of the aisle. He freezes, startled at the sheer number of people looking at him. But the surprise morphs into disgust when his eyes land on Kim Doyoung, ignoring the fact that his two best friends are standing not five feet away.

“Oh.” Yongqin, bravest of them all, speaks first, “Hello.”

Youngho winces at the palpable tension in the air. Yuta is grabbing on to his arm, paling at the secondhand embarrassment, on the verge of exploding into a braying laugh.

Taeyong assesses the three of them standing in his way. He tips his chin up, voice steady, “Excuse me.”

Kun and Yongqin step aside immediately, but Doyoung stays put. Taeyong doesn’t bother to pick a fight, sidestepping the boy iced to the ground. When Taeyong walks between them with his head held high, their eyes follow, and that urge to fidget returns to Youngho by the time Kun’s gaze lands on him.

Other than a brief glance, Kun offers nothing else, turning back around immediately.

The back of his neck is a dark shade of crimson.

Taeyong unloads the bags of chips and tubs of ice cream into their cart loudly, hisses under his breath, “Let’s _go_.”

And Youngho is ready to. With the bizarre sting in the air almost painful against his skin, he’d rather leave before Yuta loses all resolve and dissolves into a fit of nervous laughter. He makes a quick turn on his heel, ignoring the panicked look on Yuta’s face when he pushes the cart hastily, having Yuta backpedal out the other end of the aisle.

Taeyong is huddled against Youngho, the tips of his ears a bright red–as red as the time Youngho caught Jaehyun staring oh-so-lovingly at Yuta from across the study lounge. He’s muttering under his breath and Youngho just wants to get them _out_ of here because Kun must be staring, and he wouldn’t know what to do if both his best friends broke down.

They’re almost by the end when,

“Taeyong.”

Yuta jerks to a stop and so does the cart. Youngho groans inwardly when the metal jabs into his torso, but he can’t be worried about that now,

“Can I talk to you?”

Taeyong whirls around, “Excuse me?”

Youngho braves to look over his shoulder. He doesn’t understand Doyoung’s furrowed brows nor the earnestness he hears, and it’s now more than apparent that he’s _really_ missed something important. He motions for Yuta to clue him in but Yuta merely shakes his head, hiding his face in his hands.

“Just for a minute,” Doyoung says. He watches Taeyong in a way that means a million things Youngho doesn’t understand, “It won’t take long.”

Behind him, Kun and Yongqin are watching on just as Youngho and Yuta are. Neither of them, however, look as clueless as Youngho feels. They stand on Doyoung’s flanks, expressions impassive. Youngho might not know what’s going on, what he’s witnessing, but it sure feels like any move made is going to set off some hidden explosive on the minefield they’re on.

Taeyong stands a little straighter, “Fine.”

He walks straight towards Doyoung and doesn’t stop. Doyoung takes it as a cue and follows, nodding towards Kun and hurrying after Taeyong. They disappear down the end of the aisle, taking the tension with them as they go. Youngho breathes better, and judging from the sighs that follow their exit, so do the other three.

At a loss of what to do, Youngho turns to Yuta.

“I’m going to eavesdrop,” they hear.

“Uh.” Yuta tilts his head to look past Youngho and right at Yongwin, who’s already seconds away from bolting off. Yuta’s eyes narrow when he says, “Don’t you think they deserve some privacy?”

“Uh,” Yongqin mimics, “ _okay_ , person-I-don’t-know, I’m just making sure my best friend’s okay.” He rolls his eyes and turns to Kun, “You in?”

Youngho feels a familiar panic when Yuta mutters, “What the–”

“They’re right,” Kun says before Yuta can clench his fists. He tells Yongqin, “We shouldn’t.”

Yongqin doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t relent either. He excuses himself swiftly, to which Yuta snorts. Youngho is again torn down the middle when Yuta leaves as Yonqin does, clearly suspicious of the other’s intentions.

“Sorry.”

Youngho’s neck nearly snaps in half, “Huh?”

“About my friend,” Kun says, jerking his thumb at where Yongqin’d gone off. He stays where he’s standing, leaving a gap between the two of them, “He’s–just worried about Doyoung. After all that’s happened.”

Youngho nods, “Yes. Exactly.”

“He’s really not a bad guy, Doyoung,” Kun says lowly. He inches slowly towards Youngho, eyes raking the shelves rather than resting on Youngho, speaking softly, “I know how it might seem, but he’s really not.”

Youngho’s loses feeling in his legs, “Right.”

“As Taeyong’s friend, I know it must be hard to think so,” Kun goes on, starting to ramble along, “But I guess there’re just going to be some things we won’t know about it, even if we _are_ their friends. Qin and I have been trying to help Doyoung out, but it’s just–I don’t know, we don’t know what’s right either.”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Youngho tries not to freak out, “I–understand. Completely.”

Kun looks at him, “You do?”

“Er.” Youngho rubs at his eyes, “I–actually, I–no.” When he lowers his hands, Kun is frowning at him, confusion as clear as day. Youngho waves his hands in the space between them, “I mean, I know–I think I know something happened, but I don’t know. What happened.”

Kun’s frown deepens and Youngho takes it as a bad sign.

“I’m–not good with advice,” Youngho admits out of the blue. Kun fails to follow, “So, I mean–sorry, I’m just–gonna go now.”

Youngho’s ready to bolt free when Kun calls after him, “Wait, hang on.” Slowly, he turns to find Kun staring like Youngho’s got another head growing off his shoulder, “Do you know what’s happened between them or not?”

“No,” Youngho answers quickly this time, refusing to let himself sneak a lie through. “I don’t, I–I’m not all that great with advice so my friends rarely–you know, tell me things.”

Kun takes a moment to take that in. His brows furrow together tightly, and Youngho can see the gears in his mind working. Youngho’s thinks to say something–anything–to rectify whatever he’s just made a mistake of admitting to before Kun can form a completely horrid impression of Youngho (if he hadn’t already), but the words don’t form.

Cotton, cotton, cotton.

“Would you date Doyoung?”

Youngho’s jaw hits the ground so hard, he’s sure they hear the echoes of it back at the Academy.

“No,” Kun shakes his head. He lifts his head to look Youngho straight in the eye, dead serious, “Would you date me?”

Sweet _Lord._

Youngho’s soul ascends to the highest heavens, then drops straight into deepest rung of hell.

“You’re a fourth-year, aren’t you?” Kun goes on, completely glossing over the fact that Youngho’s having a hard time seeing straight, “You’ll be leaving the Academy soon, won’t you?”

Youngho nods, not trusting his voice to work fine.

“Would you take the risk and date a third-year?” Kun rephrases. It does nothing to alleviate Youngho’s racing heart, nor anything to remove the image of Kun snuggled cute in his arms, my _god_ , “Considering the distance and the changes you’d have to think of, and you don’t know enough context here to take sides–would you do it?”

“I–uh, I–” Youngho is so close to losing it. Even if he knew any sort of context, he’s positive he wouldn’t be able to make use of any of it, “I guess it depends.”

“What on?”

“A lot of things,” Youngho stammers, tries to have his brain to please just work for a second or two. “It depends on the person, on the situation–how much you and I are willing to work things out.”

Kun blinks, “You and I?”

_You and I._

“Hypothetically.” Youngho clears his throat, “Hypothetically.”

If Kun felt that strange tug Youngho feels in his heart, he doesn’t show it.

“Right,” he says, drawing it out slowly. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I just–don’t know what–”

Youngho is nearly thrown off his feet when the familiar metal rails of a shopping cart slams into his lower back. He stumbles forward fast, very nearly swerving off to the left, face inches from Kun’s.

“They’ve left!” Yuta is announcing, disregarding Youngho’s pained groans. He’s rounding the cart, pulling Youngho by the elbow, “We have to go _now_ , Seo–”

“Who left?” Kun asks, concern evident.

“Those two lovebirds and that meddling friend of yours,” Yuta sighs. “I was watching them and Taeyong sprinted off with the two of them on his heels–Seo Youngho, I swear to _god_ –if you don’t get _up_ –”

“You just broke my back!” Youngho defends, wincing at the dull ache starting to throb.

“Don’t be a baby, we have to go.” Yuta abandons their cart of groceries to the side, yanking on Youngho’s wrist now. He turns to tell Kun, “You. You should probably come with us too.”

–

Yuta runs off first to get Jaehyun for an extra set of eyes and leaves Youngho with Kun to search the school grounds. Youngho goes along, bewildered at the sheer intensity and escalation of things. Sure, Taeyong and Doyoung have gotten into screaming matches before but never did any of them have Taeyong in any sort of _danger_.

“He’s not,” Yuta had said, when Youngho’d brought up just this. They were halfway back onto school grounds then, “I just don’t want him making a decision he’s going to regret.”

Exactly what this decision is and just how they’re going to stop it from happening, Youngho doesn’t know. And off the worried look now permanently etched on Kun’s face, it seems as though he doesn’t know either.

“I don’t think they’re going to be here,” Kun murmurs, following Youngho anyway into the Dining Hall.

Standing beside Youngho now, close enough for Youngho to be smacked with a faceful of Kun’s strawberry-scented body wash, Youngho thinks it was honestly just inevitable that they bumped head first in a collision on their first meeting. Kun stands half a head shorter than Youngho and really, it’s just the perfect distance if Youngho were to just lean forward and–

“What about out near the North Lakes?” Kun is turning away, expecting Youngho to follow. Youngho does, “That used to be their spot.”

Youngho didn’t know that.

He also didn’t know that his best friend has been dating Kim Doyoung for the majority of their second year at the Academy, so the bar isn’t set all that high here.

“It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell you,” Yuta had assured him, huffing from their jog back to the Academy. “He just didn’t know how. Or when.”

Youngho would’ve argued that he could think of many ways how and many times when, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’d been harboring a secret crush for the past few weeks now; he really isn’t one to talk or preach practicing transparency between them three.

“It’s too cold out on the North Lakes,” Youngho says, knowing Taeyong would never think of it. A lightbulb flickers, “The studio.”

Kun stops, “What?”

“The dance studios,” Youngho says, already heading towards the West Hall where all the individual rooms are. He leads the way, Kun on his heel, “Taeyong spent most of summer and his days in there–bet money it’s the first place he’d think of.”

Kun doesn’t disagree.

Youngho remembers having been to Studio 201 tens of times, especially so whenever Taeyong was adamant on skipping meals to keep practicing. It’s a large enough space for at least two dancers, with one of the walls a floor-to-ceiling mirror equipped with a ballet barre. There’s a metal cabinet in one corner of the room, big enough for students so store their belongings and hang their outfits; and beside it, a simple sound system attached to two speakers set up by the back corners of the room.

Now, it’s empty.

Youngho enters anyway, flicking the light switch on. He hears Kun marvel softly when the room is illuminated by the overhead fluorescents.

“Wow,” he’s murmuring, “I didn’t know we had studios like these here.”

Youngho raises a brow, “They’re similar to the piano studios, are they not?”

“It’s not as big,” Kun says. He walks over to the metal closet and opens it, revealing a couple of dresses and other stage costumes, “Or furnished.”

“Aside from the piano in there, of course.”

Kun shoots him a flat look, “Ha ha, funny.”

He’s saying something else Youngho doesn’t catch because there’s hurried footsteps coming down the hall now. Youngho hears a voice eerily canny to Taeyong’s and it makes the hair on his nape stand.

Kun notices his state of paralysis, “What is it?”

Thinking on his feet, Youngho slams the light switch and makes a break for the cabinet. Kun’s eyes widen when Youngho does, “Get in the closet!”

“Excuse me?”

Youngho wastes no time in huddling Kun into the metal closet, barely fitting himself in there too. He’s sure he’s already elbowed Kun twice in the face trying to fit his long limbs into a space barely three-feet deep. He fumbles to get the door shut, but when he does, they’re encased in complete darkness.

“What are you doing–”

“I heard them coming this way–”

“–wait, Youngho, this–”

Watching through the cracks of the cabinet, they both still at the studio flooding with light again. It’s enough light for Youngho’s eyes to adjust and make out the panicked look on Kun’s face, half-covered by one of the stage costumes hanging from the rail. Their legs are in a tangled mess, and Youngho fears breathing because he just _knows_ Kun’s going to feel the air around them shift.

That close.

The voices on the other side of the metal doors are muffled, but it’s definitely Taeyong. Kun moves, bringing his hands to cover his mouth, eyes on Youngho, then on where Youngho’s still holding the metal doors closed. Youngho nods reassuringly, and Kun nods too, communicating successfully.

“–did you follow me here?” Taeyong cries, somewhere near the front of the room. Youngho breathe shallow through his nose; Kun’s eyes are still on him. “Leave me alone, Doyoung–just go already!”

“No,” Doyoung says, calmer. He’s closer to the door, Youngho makes out, “Please don’t do this–I don’t want to leave–us like this. Please, Taeyong, please don’t be like this–”

Youngho looks to Kun, whose eyes are wider than Youngho’s ever seen them. His glasses start to slip down his nose and Youngho, with his left hand, moves before he thinks–he pushes them up by the side, ever so gently with the back of his hand.

Youngho hears nothing–nothing of Taeyong nor Doyoung–but the sound of his heart thundering in his ears. Kun’s chest rises with a sharp inhale, stuttering with a staggering breath. Youngho feels his foot sliding one of the books piled up on the bottom; he moves to keep himself from falling, but it only has a dress slipping free and falling over his face.

For a moment, he’s staring at nothing but Gingham.

Kun is pushing it out of the way then; right hand tucking the dress away, left hand still over his lips. He leaves his right hand there, lingers by Youngho’s head for moments more than he needs to. His palm is so close–so, so, _so_ close–to Youngho’s ear, and it’s more than enough to have shivers sprinting down Youngho’s spine.

“–already had this conversation a hundred times over,” Taeyong’s voice returns to the space between Youngho and Kun. “I’m not the one that wanted to break up, I’m not the one that gave up, Doyoung.”

“That’s not it–that’s not–”

“But it is!”

Taeyong chokes on a sob and Youngho winces. He looks to the door guiltily, knowing Taeyong would never want him to hear of this, a wicked invasion of privacy. He’s debating whether or not to expose their secret little hiding spot when the heat on his neck bursts into flames.

Kun is touching his neck gingerly, watching him closely. He raises his brows in question.

Youngho shakes his head, the only thing he can manage without completely falling apart. The touch is light and gentle, but considering how close their faces are, Youngho wouldn’t put it past himself to let a sweet confession spill from his lips.

All he needs is that tiny push and Kun is pushing all the right buttons.

“You had to leave for Juilliard, fine. You made the decision yourself, fine.” Taeyong says. He sounds like he’s pacing the room, “But you let it ruin us before it even happened. You drew the line and you didn’t even want to just– _try_. You didn’t give us a chance to work things out, you didn’t give me a chance.” A pause, “You never wanted to give me a chance.”

“I was scared!” Doyoung is closer to the middle of the room, “I was scared, Taeyong, and confused, and I didn’t know what I was doing–I still don’t–I couldn’t–”

“What do you want from me now then?” Taeyong’s exasperation echoes across the studio, “Why do you keep–doing this to me, Doyoung? What is it that you want?”

“I–I want to be with you.”

Youngho can’t even find it himself to giggle. There’s unmistakable heartache in Doyoung’s voice and it would be obvious even to a three-year-old that he does mean what he’s saying. The entire situation transcends a new plane of morbidity that Youngho would never like to step foot on ever again.

“Just so you can change your mind when I graduate?” Taeyong says, equalling in hurt. He laughs, mirthless, “You’ve already fooled me once, Doyoung.”

“I won’t,” Doyoung murmurs, quietest Youngho’s ever heard him. He almost misses it when Doyoung whispers, “I love you, Taeyong. I haven’t stopped loving you.”

Kun inhales sharply. Youngho’s eyes nearly roll out of his head and he presses his lips together tight, holds his breath. Kun’s gaze never leaves his, despite them both shaking at the thought of getting caught.

“Don’t say that to me,” Taeyong warns, “Don’t you _dare_ say that to me.”

“I mean it,” Doyoung insists. There’s footsteps and then rustling. Youngho represses the itch to try and get a peek through the slit of the door, “I love you, Taeyong. I do.”

“And what if you leave me again?”

It’s Doyoung that sniffles, “I don’t ever want to. Even if I do, it’ll be the hardest thing I’ll have to do–but I’m asking you now, please–would you give us another chance?”

The silence that follows lasts for far too long. Youngho can only hear his heart–and if he weren’t completely making it up, he could hear Kun’s too. He’s too absorbed by the fact that Kun’s face has been the closest it’s been since they stepped foot in this godforsaken closet.

And Kun catches him staring, because where else is there to look? Youngho swallows thickly and it’s in that moment he’s hit with a moment of weakness–his eyes dart to Kun’s lips, soft and plush, ever so fleetingly. He catches himself a beat too late, the burn against his cheeks _hot_ when he’s looking away.

Youngho is praying to any god, any deity, any higher power to just please hear his cry for once in his life–

Kun’s gaze drops, and as quick as it’d fallen on Youngho’s lips, it’s up and away.

Youngho can’t believe what his mind’s insisting.

And thankfully, he doesn’t have to consider it because Taeyong is speaking again, finally breaking the silence Youngho can’t stand.

“Another chance,” Taeyong is saying. Youngho isn’t even listening anymore. Kun is frozen; he knows he’s been caught staring. Outside, Taeyong goes on, “I–want to give us a second chance, of course I do, but–Doyoung, when you left, I–I thought we were nothing. You left, you said you didn’t want this anymore, you said you didn’t want _me_ –”

“Please just tell me how to fix it,” Doyoung pleads. There’s more rustling, “Please–just tell me what I can do to fix this because I’ll do anything–I just want for us to have another chance, Taeyong, please?”

“I don’t know,” Taeyong whispers. Youngho’s heart drops further than the depths of hell for Doyoung; across him, Kun’s stopped breathing. They wait in silence for Taeyong to say, “I love you, Doyoung, that hasn’t changed–I don’t know if it’ll ever change.”

“Then–”

“It’s the idea of you leaving again. It’s the thought of you walking out on me, and I know you can make promises and you can tell me everything I need to hear–and you could mean them too, but it–it still happened. And it’s not like I can forget it–at least, not now.”

“So–what are you saying?” It’s defeat Youngho hears in Doyoung, “Are you saying this is it? Are you saying we’ll never–”

“No,” Taeyong is vehement. “No, I mean–it’s going to be something–that’ll come up again and again and I–”

“Okay,” Doyoung interjects, “okay, no, I know–we can deal with it together, I’ll do everything I can. I love you, Taeyong, I regretted letting you go and I’ve regretted every single day since.”

Youngho makes a face at Doyoung’s sickeningly sweet words, temporarily forgetting his current predicament. Kun shoots him a deadpan look, fingers pinching Youngho’s neck as a sort of punishment. Youngho rolls his eyes and pretends to retch; Kun pinches him again, brows furrowing together. He shifts, forehead nearly knocking with Youngho’s, to stand a little taller, matching Youngho’s slouched self.

Youngho’s breath catches, suddenly hyperaware that he hasn’t got anywhere to run off to. Kun notices this immediately, lips curling up deviously. Not one to back down from a challenge, Youngho shifts to stand caged over Kun, head shaking at the younger boy’s taunts. Kun flinches just the slightest, but his jaw is still set hard.

“–haven’t changed a single bit since you’ve left,” Taeyong’s says, spiraling back into Youngho’s hearing. “Not a single bit.”

“I don’t know if you mean that as a bad thing.”

“I don’t know either.” Taeyong sighs, “Doyoung, I don’t know–”

“Then let’s just give us another try.”

Youngho’s lips curl at the corners when Kun’s eyes drop to his lips again; he blushes instantly, and there isn’t a single bone in Youngho’s body that wants to leave this closet. Kun moves, exhaling through his nose heavily, the turns his head away, all at once refusing to be stared at.

“Please, Taeyong,” Doyoung mumbles.

Youngho feels his leg ache, a cramp starting to build.

“I–” Taeyong sighs, then groans, “C’mon, we can talk about this in my room–I’ve got snot all over my shirt and I don’t want us getting caught in here when the next sessions gets in.”

_Thank you, Jesus._

“But we–”

“I know.” There’s a pause, and Youngho hears Doyoung sniffle, “I’m asking you to come back to my room. To talk,” he adds lately, “about us.”

Youngho tunes out of the rest of the conversation, attention returning to Kun, who’s refusing to look at him, much less acknowledge his presence. They couldn’t be any closer without their foreheads touching and it’s more than breath mingled between them now. Youngho wonders just how long they’re supposed to be trapped here.

Outside, he hears them shuffle around. And when their footsteps fade into nothing, when the studio is covered in darkness once more, when it’s again just his heartbeat in his ears, Youngho releases his hold on the metal doors.

Youngho lets Kun stumble out first, hurrying to put a good distance between them, suddenly (and for good reason) desperate to get away. He settles on making it halfway to the door, but turns around to face Youngho with pink cheeks and parted lips.

Youngho still has his ankle stuck in the pile of clothes on the bottom of the closet. He shakes it off hastily, winces when he hits the side of the door instead. The sound of clanging reverberates across the studio, but Youngho couldn’t care less.

Far, too far away, Kun stands, speechless.

It’s suddenly too much space between them and Youngho is insane to think that Kun’s stolen some of the warmth off his body, but the cool prickle against Youngho’s skin says otherwise. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say because–what _should_ he say?

“Uh,” Youngho starts. It’s not a good start, but he starts anyway, “So.”

Kun is silent. Youngho isn’t even sure if the boy’s still breathing.

“That was–” Youngho clears his throat, feels a jitter under his feet. He laughs, pained, “Hah! Did we–have a moment in there?”

And it’s really not the smoothest line Youngho’s ever said, or the smartest thing he’s ever had to come up with on the spot, and it shows immediately on Kun’s expression. His brows furrow and his lips twists into something far from the sweet smile Youngho’s so used to seeing. The dimples in his cheeks deepen as do the lines on his forehead, thinking, thinking, _thinking._

“I mean, I know we aren’t exactly,” Youngho struggles to find the word, “friends. We’re just–friends of friends–but I–I mean, before today, I wasn’t even sure if you knew who I was.”

Kun twists his fingers together, “I know who you are.” He relaxes, then tenses again, hugging himself, “We’re–classmates.”

_Right_.

“But I–” Oh _god_ , Youngho didn’t plan on doing this today. Or ever, “I’ve noticed you. Outside of classes. Around. On school grounds.”

Kun’s knuckles are white where he’s holding onto himself, and his face is unbelievably pale. Even with the persistent blush on Kun’s cheeks, Youngho doesn’t know how or what to read off of him.

Well.

There’s really no turning back at this point.

“And I don’t know what I’m doing or–what I’m trying to do here and I swear I’m not a–creep,” Youngho wonders when he’ll stop stuttering. He eats the rock in his throat, feels it thud hard against his gut, “But I–I mean, did we–really have a moment in there?”

Youngho sees hesitation immediately. Kun glances around the room, “I don’t know.”

To that, Youngho blanks.

He couldn’t just wave everything off now, not with the awkward tension in the air now, could he? It was thick enough for a butter knife to slip right through, and without a doubt, he’s going to have to see more of Kun if Taeyong were going to reintroduce Doyoung into his life. The next couple of months would consist of tiptoeing whenever he’d pass Kun in the halls, flushed cheeks whenever they’d lock eyes across the Dining hall, lousy excuses they’d have to come up with if they were ever stuck in a conversation with others.

In all honesty, he could.

It would be the same as it is now, where Kun would be nothing more than just a classmate, where Kun would be nothing more than another student on campus grounds, wandering about with his honey gold hair and gold-framed glasses. Youngho could keep his lips sealed and they would return to normal, to acquaintances or even somewhat of strangers; they’d go back to nothing.

And that makes Youngho say instead,

“I have feelings for you.”

The reaction is not immediate. Youngho hears his own words ring in his ear just about the same time Kun’s eyes widen, lips parting. Resisting the impulse to run out the door, Youngho glues his feet to the ground and clenches his teeth, biting the proverbial bullet as hard as he possible, physically can. If he weren’t equally stunned by his own turn of decisions, the silence would’ve been far too uncomfortable to stand through.

But the silence does stretch for too long then and Kun’s mouth is still hanging open. He’s looking right at Youngho–equally disconcerting–but no words seem to come through.

“By that, I mean–I like you,” Youngho tacks on, like it wasn’t already completely clear. It doesn’t make Kun breathe any better and it’s Youngho’s limit, the babbling beginning without warning, “And you–really don’t have to say anything about this–really, we can just forget about today and I won’t bother you about it, I–”

“Thank you.”

Youngho clamps his mouth shut.

Kun’s expression is twisted painfully and Youngho doesn’t know what to do about it. He simply waits, watches Kun start to unwind his hands, regaining some control over his movements.

“But–I’m sorry,” Kun says again. The tips of his ears are about as bright as the overhead lights, “I don’t–I don’t think I can–I don’t know what to say this is the first time anyone has ever–” he waves his hands around haphazardly, “–I don’t know what to say. Other than–thank you.”

“Oh.”

“I mean,” Kun breathes in deeply. Then out. He looks sympathetic, “I’ve noticed you–around too and I’ve heard Taeyong say some really nice stuff about you and Yuta, but I–sorry.”

The sting of rejection is cold.

Youngho pushes away the rising pain in his chest, “That’s–okay.” He laughs, lifts a hand to scratch at his nape, desperate to give his hands something to do, “I’m sorry, really, I–won’t bring it up again, Kun, I–”

“No, I–”

“It’s okay,” Youngho shakes his head, all ready to crawl into bed and forget this even happened. He gestures to the door, “Let’s go–I’m sure the others are wondering where–”

“I think you’re cute,” Kun blurts out. Youngho shuts up, feels his heart beat once. Kun struggles as Youngho did, speaking slow, “I–but I–know a lot of people who think that too, that you’re good-looking and really–nice, and I–I just don’t want you to think that I don’t. Or that I don’t–like you.”

Youngho rolls his shoulders back, eyes scanning Kun. He tries to breathe, tries to understand the information he’s been given to the best of his capabilities, but it’s still a mess of jumbled thoughts. He gives up, “I’m sorry, what?”

If anything, Kun is equally confused. He wrings his hands together, “I mean, I’ve noticed you too–around. You’re always with your friends and your camera and you’re always taking photographs, and I–I’ve noticed you, is what I’m saying.” Youngho says nothing, and Kun seems to comprehend it as shock, “What I’m saying–what I’m saying is, er, that I think–”

Youngho has never felt more impatient in his life.

“I think–I like you.”

And there’re almost fireworks in Youngho’s chest. There’s almost that burst of pure elation and joy, but he knows better than to let it take control. As much as he wished to wholeheartedly believe that this is Kun trying to admit of his own feelings, Youngho knows the hesitation is a simple sign of something more.

“But I don’t really–know you,” Kun is saying. His eyes take Youngho up and down, “And I’m just–confused, and I don’t know what to say anymore, because I can’t believe you just–” his cheeks blush a deep red, “–but I don’t know–”

“I don’t really know you either,” Youngho says gently, like he were coaxing a kitten out from under a couch. He hesitates to close the gap between them, but Kun allows for him to inch forward the slightest, “I don’t–think you have to know everything about someone to like them.”

Kun blinks.

Youngho takes the silence as a good thing, confidence bounding, “I like you and when I see you, I want to know more about you, Kun, and I–that’s enough for me right now. If you’re trying to say that you like me, that’s enough for me.”

“I like you,” Kun admits slowly, murmuring the words that makes Youngho’s chest feel like it’s been hit by a missile. “I just–don’t know if this is a good idea.” Kun clasps his hands together again, “I–actually, I talked to my friends about–liking you–” Youngho strains to hear Kun’s soft whispers, “–and I mean, they brought up a good point.”

Youngho doesn’t even know what to think. He’s barely had enough time to understand that he’s properly confessed his feelings to Kun and they’re already discussing the repercussions of something that hasn’t had yet a second to bloom.

“Qin pointed out that graduation’s in six months,” Kun says. Youngho stares at those round, brown eyes looking up at him, as earnest as he’s ever seen them, “And that isn’t–a lot of time. Left.”

Youngho didn’t quite consider that. He knew he’d be leaving soon, sure, but he’d never considered it as a reason against him. He looks down, wondering again and again just where he’s head has been. For as long as he’d been hoping to see Kun down the halls or across the courtyard, he hadn’t considered the possibility of things–actually working out between them and having to deal with the idea of leaving the Academy.

He wants to say that Kun’s drawing a line here, he’s drawing a line that doesn’t need to be drawn, not yet.

When he looks back at Kun, there’s something else he sees there. It’s intangible and Youngho doesn’t know how to feel. Kun’s right–they didn’t know enough about each other yet, and it certainly isn’t any appropriate for Youngho to be pushing for something he barely has had the time to seriously consider.

The thought of Taeyong and Doyoung skips through his mind and as fast as it’d appeared, it’s gone when he thinks of just how long they’ve been together, and how it must be what’s got Kun talking about time–more than a year together and they didn’t make it either.

Kun looks at him, and Youngho sees that it’s confusion there.

_Right._

“I–didn’t think that far ahead,” Youngho admits, smiling apologetically. If there’s already doubt in Kun’s heart, Youngho didn’t want to rebut them, not when he doesn’t have the place to, “But you’re right and–don’t worry about today–we can just pretend it never happened.”

Kun doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move at all.

Youngho sighs, holds his hands over the back of his head. He smiles at the ceiling, eyes shut for a moment, “What a Friday evening.” The only thing that fills the studio is his cheery laugh, somber in its own way, “Now I’m really hoping those two are working things out, else we would’ve hidden in that closet for nothing.”

When the quiet starts to itch, Youngho looks at Kun.

“Right,” he says, turning around when Youngho raises a questioning brow. He pauses for no longer than a second, then he’s taking large strides to the door, “I–I should go.”

Youngho frowns at the back of Kun’s head, “Is everything–”

“Sorry, I’ll see you around.”

Youngho stares until the door is shut.

Quietly, he wonders if he’d said something wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

Youngho snaps out over his reverie, “What?”

“You’ve been staring at that same page for the last twenty minutes,” Yuta deadpans. He’s laid across one of the plush couches surrounding the table their notes are laid out across, a hand in Jaehyun’s hair where the younger boy is seated on the floor adjacent to Youngho. Yuta sniffs, “Isn’t that paper due tomorrow?”

Youngho looks down at the page of his textbook, then at the empty Word document on his laptop. He winces inwardly, “Yes.”

“Is something on your mind?” Jaehyun asks, kinder than Yuta’s ever been to Youngho. He was always soft and just plain sweet, and it makes Youngho wonder how on earth Yuta’d managed to snag him up, “You look troubled.”

“It’s–nothing,” Youngho sighs. It’s not entirely the truth, more so of Youngho’s wishful thinking, “I’ve just got something on my mind.”

“Obviously,” Yuta rolls his eyes. He pulls gently on a tuft of Jaehyun’s baby pink hair, smoothening it with his fingers, “Got rejected, didn’t you?”

Youngho’s jaw drops. He looks to Jaehyun, who seems equally curious for an answer; Yuta’s lips curl into a grin, positively reeking evil. Youngho closes his textbook a little too loudly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Yuta groans. He twirls Jaehyun’s hair around his pointer finger, “You’re terrible at lying, you know that? Your face gives everything away, Seo.”

Youngho bites on the inside of his cheek.

“Did you ask someone out to Halloween Night?” Yuta guesses. He moves to sit up, interested now, “Did they turn you down?”

“Er.” While neither Yuta nor Jaehyun knew of Kun, Youngho decides that it would be much simpler if he kept this knowledge to himself, “Yeah.”

“Rough,” Yuta says, about as unsympathetic as one can get. He rests his chin on Jaehyun’s crown, arms moving to curl around Jaehyun’s shoulders. Jaehyun leans back, snuggles in to the Yuta’s embrace, and Youngho doesn’t even flinch at their obvious displays of love anymore, “How did you ask them? Why did they say no? Did you suggest a really crap costume idea?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Youngho groans.

“Well, we’re waiting,” Yuta clicks his tongue, “What’s got you all sulky?”

Youngho tries to shrug it off, but Yuta’s never one to let anything slip by him, much less over something related to a secret, harbored crush Youngho’s had. He tells them the gist of it–about how he’d confessed his feelings to a certain someone, of how he was turned down before they could even take a step forward together, of how that certain someone _did_ in fact like Youngho back but it was for naught.

“What?” Yuta raises a brow, “So you just–let him walk away?”

Youngho snatches a pillow from the couch behind him, hugging the velvet fabric close to his chest, “What am I supposed to do? Hold him back?”

Yuta sighs, now practically draped over Jaehyun like a blanket, “Well, I wouldn’t know just how much you like this guy, I mean–you don’t look like you like him enough to be doing something about it.”

“I did do something about it,” Youngho points out.

“What? A half-hearted confession that you blurted out?”

“ _Hey_ –”

“Yeah, sure, he isn’t sure if the six months is going to be worth it,” Yuta shrugs, “But are you just going to let him think that? Or is there something ringing inside of you that’s wondering if it really could work out?”

To that, Youngho stays quiet.

–

What _did_ he expect from Kun? Did he expect for Kun to accept him with open arms? Did he expect for Kun to turn him down anyway? There wasn’t a reason for him to have any expectations, but he still did–there’s no denying that the last few weeks of actively avoiding Kun haven’t been the easiest days he’s ever lived.

With Taeyong and Doyoung’s newfound confidence for their everblooming relationship, some new arrangements have been made–they spend as much time together as humanely possible, cuddled up together during meals, snuggled under blankets during free sessions, basking in the presence of one another every single waking minute of the day. Yuta’s sought refuge by going off on secret dates with Jaehyun, leaving Youngho with Kun and Yongqin, who’s unsurprisingly a lot more talkative than the last they’d met.

They’d agreed to have everything return the way it used to be, the way it’s supposed to be, but Youngho finds it almost _unfair_ that Kun isn’t keeping to his side of the bargain.

It isn’t easy to keep a straight face whenever Kun took to excusing himself immediately after finishing his last scrap of breakfast, whenever Kun insisted he had work that could only be done in the library whenever Kun ignored Youngho’s weak attempts at making conversation. Eventually, Youngho does give up, choosing instead to sit with the other fourth-years instead of being at a table where he couldn’t feel more unwanted.

“Is it awkward?” Taeyong had asked, during one miraculous evening Doyoung wasn’t by his side. The younger boy was off at vocal training and Youngho was spared a couple of hours trying to avoid Kun, “With Doyoung around?”

“No,” Youngho said honestly. He’d always been fond of Doyoung, just like he’d found Jaehyun to be when they’d first met; both completely wrapped around his best friends’ pinkies.

Doyoung’s friends, however, Youngho thought differently.

“Are you sure?” Taeyong tugged on the sleeves of his orange sweater, “I never see you guys around anymore.”

“Yeah,” Youngho nodded. He smiled, tried to ease the anxiousness he saw in Taeyong’s eyes, “Yuta just wants to spend a little more time with Jaehyun, and I’ve got my photography exhibition coming up–so the days are a little packed.”

It’d took a couple more reassuring statements but Taeyong bought it eventually, promising that they would set aside a date soon for just them three to meet and hangout.

That, Youngho was looking forward to.

–

Youngho is tucking his extra battery pack into his back pocket when there’re three knocks on his door. He slings the camera around his neck and tugs on the brown leather to make sure it’s secure.

Shoving his Converse on, he shuffles to the door, tries not to trip over his laces.

“Hey– _oh my_ –okay.”

Standing on his threshold is Yuta dressed head-to-toe in eerily realistic ghoul garb, an even more terrifying version of the ghost from The Ring. There’s fake blood all across Yuta’s face and neck, the white sheets draped over him covered in rips, the black wig he had on completely matted down the sides.

“What do you think?” Yuta grins, spinning around to showcase the incredible detail that’s gone to making his costume uncomfortably realistic.

“I think you’re going to give me nightmares tonight.”

“Perfect.”

Youngho disagrees wholeheartedly and tries not to look into Yuta’s white eyes. He double-checks for all of his gear, makes sure he’s got on the right set of lenses for tonight’s party–he’s been informed by the decorating committee that they’re going for a sort of wonderland theme with really great backdrops, so a wider lens is tonight’s pick.

Their dorm’s hallway has also been decorated to the nines by the other fourth-years, with hand-painted masks and banners and plastic bugs littered across the floors. It’s always been a ritual for their floor to have something done, but they’d really gone all the way–with the blood smears and black scrawls crying for help all etched along the walls, the individual Halloween-themed name plaques Jeonghan made for everyone–since it’s their collective last year together at the residence halls.

Yuta stares at him, “You look–cute.”

Youngho’s had gotten so much flack for not dressing up that the other fourth-years caught him in the dorm lounge earlier to manhandle a pair of black, fuzzy cat ears on him, chiding him for being so uninvested. Ong Seongwoo and Yook Sungjae held him down again five minutes after to draw on some whiskers to go with his outfit, to which Youngho eventually allowed them to without breaking any of their limbs.

“Thanks.” Youngho scrunches his nose, feels the hardened layer of Sharpie, “That was what I was going for.”

Yuta snorts, “Clearly.”

“–help me with this please?”

Jaehyun emerges from Yuta’s room, never mind the fact that each residence hall’s only opened to their respective years, decked out in a traditional king’s attire, robes a glorious gold. It’s the complete opposite of Yuta’s terrifying getup and nothing but a clear reflection of their stark differences.

Yuta nods, moving to help Jaehyun secure the robe’s fit. It’s a sight to see, and Youngho takes a couple of shots, grinning at the sheer bizarreness of their clashing outfits.

“Your costume’s really cute,” Jaehyun says, smiling at Youngho’s cat ears. His dimples deepen, “I think I know someone who’s got a cat tail from a stage play once if you’d like to–”

“No, no, no, _thank_ you, Jae.” Youngho starts to backpedal, ready to take off for the Main Hall at the thought of the other fourth-years pinning a cat's tail on him, “My costume’s fine as it is.”

“Are you on duty the whole night?” Yuta asks, peeking from behind Jaehyun’s shoulder. He frowns when Youngho nods, “Well, that’s boring–what about that boy you asked out? Is he going?”

Youngho stops his heart from threatening to leap free. He shrugs.

“Point him out to us later, would you?” Yuta rolls his eyes when Youngho makes a face, “What? Maybe we can help you move things along, Seo, you never know.”

“I don’t want to move things along,” Youngho says. He flicks his camera on when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs; excited chatters meant costumes, and that meant photo opportunities, “There’s nothing to move along anyway.”

“Sure,” Yuta scoffs. “We’ll see.”

“We aren’t seeing anything,” Youngho declares. The bunch of fourth-years from the floor above appear at the end of the hallway, and he spots someone dressed as Wonder Woman, “I’ll see you guys at the party, okay?”

Jaehyun waves goodbye and Yuta simply grins.

–

Youngho gets caught by Han Sanghyuk and is forced to attach a furry cat tail onto one of the belt loops on his skinny jeans. From across the hall, Yuta gives him two thumbs up and Youngho makes a mental note to really have all of Yuta’s ugly shots in their yearbook.

Sighing, he returns his attention to the steady flow of students entering the hall, all dressed elaborately in popular characters and some obscure ones Youngho struggles to name. Stationed at the entrance, he manages to get a few candids and a bunch more of the first- and second-years posing gleefully for him.

Internally, Youngho thanks the other fourth-years for his makeshift costume.

Halloween at the Academy wouldn’t be Halloween at the Academy if every single student didn’t go out of their way make most outrageous and scarily intricate costumes for a four-hour long dinner. With the brightest minds in the creative arts, Youngho really should’ve recalled just how big of a deal this is supposed to be.

Between Lee Jinhyuk’s arrival as Edward Scissorhands and Oh Minjung’s grand appearance as all three of the aliens from the Toy Story, Youngho spots Taeyong and Doyoung amongst the crowd. It’s hard not to miss Taeyong when he’s covered in all white–with detailed rhinestone embroidery across his bleached-white ripped jeans and a matching, shimmering white cape, topped with his freshly dyed platinum silver hair. Doyoung, on the other hand, looked equally uninterested in dressing up, a simple pair of floppy bunny ears framing his cheeks.

Youngho’s first thought is to walk the other way, but a nagging voice–that sounds a lot like his mother–tells him to go over. They _are_ still best friends after all, it would do neither them good if Youngho were to keep up the charades of some great wall between them.

“Hey!”

Taeyong is pulling him into a big hug before they can trade greetings, thin arms tight around Youngho’s waist. Youngho nods at Doyoung in greeting, smiles when Doyoung grins back.

“And what are you supposed to be?” Youngho asks, taking a step back to admire Taeyong’s costume in all of its impressiveness, “Did you make these?”

“I’m Elsa,” Taeyong announces, twirling around to have the rhinestones glitter like a million rainbows under the light, “You know, from _Frozen_ when she has that big breakthrough.”

Youngho recalls the time they’d all camped out in Taeyong’s room to watch the Disney film for the third time that week–it’d been finals season when the movie was released and it was honestly their saving grace.

He turns to Doyoung, “And you’re a–bunny?”

“He didn’t want to dress up,” Taeyong sulks, already glaring at Doyoung. He lets Doyoung curl an arm around his waist anyway, “Even though it’s our last Halloween at the Academy together.”

Something about that makes Youngho’s head spin.

“But it won’t be our last Halloween together,” Doyoung says simply. He leans forward to kiss Taeyong on the cheek, and Youngho glances away out of politeness.

The first few times had been surreal, seeing Taeyong and Doyoung in the same frame but lacking their usual cold shoulders and snappy remarks. They still bickered at every given opportunity, but it felt drenched in sickly sweet love whenever Taeyong kissed Doyoung to placate him, whenever Doyoung grabbed Taeyong by the hips to keep the older boy from running off. Never once did their affection feel out of place, and to that Youngho admired them for it.

Taeyong rolls his eyes, but accepts the kiss. Youngho takes another step back to fit them both in frame, positioning them in the center through the viewfinder. It’s sweet the way Taeyong leans close to Doyoung, the way their fingers are tangled together, the way Doyoung sneaks peeks at Taeyong seconds before the picture’s taken. He takes a few more of them both, highlighting Taeyong’s intricate costume and Doyoung’s half-hearted one, making notes of which ones he’d save to gift Taeyong with.

“Yuta and Jaehyun are already in there somewhere,” Youngho tells them, pointing towards where the other fourth-years are allocated. There’s music playing loudly by the stage, with people still running about, trying to get the place ready for the students performing tonight, “I think they’ve saved seats for you guys.”

“Okay,” Taeyong grins. “We’ll see you later, right?”

Youngho didn’t know if he’d be called in by Professor Lee to work on some of the post-photo production matters, but he nods anyway, the crowd around them too large to be discussing anything more than a simple conversation. He waves them in and takes a few more shots of their back views, catching a particularly serendipitous one with Taeyong smiling up at Doyoung and the younger boy grinning back.

The evening progresses quickly. Youngho gets a couple of compliments for his cat ears and tail (and whiskers, but he’s actively trying to ignore the fact that it’s been drawn on his cheeks), and he takes enough photographs to fill an entire magazine, probably. The ushers are escorting the remaining students from the foyer, sans the other students on duty for the evening.

Youngho prepares to head in too, hearing the hosts for tonight ready themselves–

“–you know? Like I thought there wouldn’t be any exemptions, but _latex_? Really?”

“It’s still a school event, Qin.”

Youngho’s limbs freeze over.

“It’s an expression of art,” Yongqin argues, voice floating loud above the thinning crowd. They turn the corner before Youngho realizes it and his eyes lock with Yongqin’s, “Hey!”

Fortunately still a ways away, Youngho is met with Yongqin in a very sleek, sort-of latex bodysuit with frills along the seams, and Kun in a wizards’ robe that looks like it’d been copped off one of the Academy’s many annual stage plays.

Schooling a smile, “Hey.”

Youngho doesn’t look at Kun, but the _hello_ is a small, quiet murmur.

“A cat,” Yongqin notes when he nears, “Very original.”

“Thanks,” Youngho says. He touches one of the ears, the synthetic feel of it sticky under his thumb, “My friends insisted I dress up, so–” he shrugs.

“You should’ve,” Yongqin agrees. If Youngho weren’t staring at Yongqin’s pores to wholeheartedly ignore Kun’s presence, he would’ve missed the slight nod Yongqin does towards Kun, “It’s your last year here, isn’t it?”

Youngho would’ve gladly swept that obvious taunt under the rug, but Yongqin yelps when he’s jabbed in the ribs.

“Qin,” Kun hisses. He glances at Youngho, swiftly turns away when Youngho notices, “ _Don’t.”_

“Right,” Yongqin groans, still rubbing at where Kun very harshly elbowed him in the torso. He shoots Youngho a loaded look–though its meaning, Youngho remains unsure of it–before clearing his throat and announcing, “I’m going to–go into the hall now.”

Youngho steps to stop Yongqin from leaving just yet, “Oh–I can grab you a picture if you–”

“Oh, no, no,” Yongqin insists, already inching out of Youngho’s reach. Youngho’s back burns at the thought of Kun still standing, waiting for him for heaven knows what, and Yongqin is the only thing between them, “I wanted to take one with the others and–oh! I see them–oh, yes, I definitely see them right now.”

Youngho gets to say nothing because Yongqin is hurrying off, slipping into the crowd without a single glance back. He watches until Yongqin’s back disappears and he’s staring at nothing but the mass of students and a flurry of colors.

“Youngho.”

He grips his camera, steels his heart. Turning back around, Youngho offers a small smile, “Hey.”

Kun fidgets with the wand in his hands, flicking the switch to have the tip light flicker on and off. He fumbles, shifting his weight from one leg to another, “How’ve you been?”

Youngho takes a moment, “I’ve been alright.” He certainly didn’t expect to be making small talk with Kun, that’s for sure, “And you?”

Kun licks his lips, and Youngho feels like the walls are closing in on him. A couple of students dressed as a team of Avengers pass them, hurrying into the hall with excited giggles. Kun waits for them to pass, “I’ve been okay.”

Youngho nods, more than ready for this conversation to end. He lifts his camera, “Can I take a photo of you? It’s for the Academy's yearbook.”

“Oh, no,” Kun shakes his head, “It’s okay, I–don’t really like to be photographed.”

The walls are _definitely_ closing in on him. There must be cracks in the roof right now.

“Actually, I–” Kun exhales, grips the wand harder, “I wanted to ask you if we could–talk.”

Youngho considers if running away would be too much of a coward move. The Yuta-like voice in his head tells him, _yes_ ; he would be remembered it for it, sure, but if it meant avoiding whatever rejection Kun wanted to bring up yet again, Youngho wouldn’t mind it much.

“Just for a little,” Kun says, noting the hesitation. It’s bravery Youngho hasn’t had in weeks and the determination in his eyes is commendable, “I just want to–clear the air between us.”

Youngho fiddles with his camera, “I–don’t think there’s anything to clear. I think we’re fine.”

“Are we?” Kun’s brows furrow the slightest; Youngho feels the tug in his heart, “We barely talk.”

“We barely spoke before too,” Youngho points out.

Kun licks his lips, “And you’re–okay with that?”

Youngho opens his mouth to say something, but a bunch of second-years turn the corner, rowdy and heading straight for them. On reflex he reaches for Kun’s shoulder, ushering them both of out of the way before they’re trampled on mercilessly. He stands over Kun, waits until they’re in the clear, lets go of the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He steps back, hand lifting off Kun’s shoulder,

but Kun moves to hold him still. His wand clatters to the ground, but neither of them move to reach for it. Against the stone walls now with their chests barely– _barely_ –inches apart, Youngho returns to the wretched closet of Studio 201. The palm of his hand burns where he’s touching the soft fabric of Kun’s robes.

He doesn’t understand the shine in Kun’s eyes, doesn’t know what to make of the cherry pink of his cheeks.

But again, he’s absorbed by honey.

“Do you–want to come up to my room?” Youngho hears himself, rephrases, “To talk.”

Kun doesn’t even think, “Can I?”

Neither those Youngho, “Yeah.” He looks into the hall, notices the dimming lights and the arrival of the first performers, “We’ll have to miss the–”

“That’s okay,” Kun says. He lets go of Youngho’s hand, breathes deeply, “Lead the way.”

–

When Youngho unlocks the door to 3C, he’s greeted by the mess he’d left before leaving earlier. With Kun right on his heels, he yanks his blanket off the floor and lays it over the mess of clothes and prints spread across his bed, trying his best save whatever’s left of his reputation. He gestures for Kun to take his desk chair, and Kun does, excusing himself quietly as he treks further into Youngho’s room.

“Sorry, it’s a little messy,” Youngho says sheepishly. He sits on the edge of his bed, “I didn’t think I’d–have anyone visiting.”

“No, it’s okay,” Kun mumbles. He glances around the room, regarding the posters and prints and knick-knacks with interest, “It feels like a real room.”

“Thanks,” Youngho says, following Kun’s gaze. Most of his things were everywhere, but it did have some semblance to the room he has back home, “Four years crammed into this little place, I guess.”

That makes Kun pause. He returns his gaze to his lap, brings his hands together in a tight hold, “Four years, huh.”

Youngho senses the tension in the room rising, and it’s nothing but an omen of something bigger than just a friendly chat–not that he was expecting it, of course not. The fluorescent light is harsh against Kun’s face, highlighting the slow flush of red on his neck.

It’s now or never. “What did you want to talk about?”

Kun stays silent. He crosses his ankles, then uncrosses them. It’s quiet for so long, Youngho’d begun to wonder just how long they’d been sitting together.

“I just wanted to know,” Kun starts, already soft and slow, “how you felt about–me.”

Youngho physically deflates.

“I mean, I know you don’t–anymore,” Kun says haltingly, no longer looking at Youngho, “I just–now that we’re avoiding one another, I just–I don’t know, I feel weird. About it.” He sighs, pinching the palm of his hand, “Like we’ve loose ends, or maybe I just feel that way all on my own and I’m overthinking things because you said you’d forget about that day.”

The air in his room drops.

“I don’t think,” Kun whispers, knuckles going white, “I want that.”

All at once, everything returns.

Every single memory of Kun stretched out against some ratty picnic mat, smiling under the sunlight, grinning at something someone else said. Every glimpse of Kun he’s had in the past months, head bowed over his notes, headphones plugged in, foot tapping rhythmically to whatever’s playing in his ears. Every laugh he’s ever heard of Kun–that low half-laugh-half-chuckle–float over when Yonqin’s said something absurd, when he’s watching one of those cat videos he seemed to love so much, when he’s thought of something, then smiled to himself, hiding behind a hand.

All of those, Youngho remembers. He didn’t exactly try to forget them.

“I know we already decided that we weren’t going to do anything,” Kun says, absorbed in a loose thread of his robes, “And honestly–I don’t know what I’m doing here, asking you again, because we’ve already decided, but I just felt like–”

Youngho finishes for him, “You wanted us to think about it again.”

Kun lifts his head and the answer is clear.

_Yes._

“What–are you thinking?” Youngho throws back. If they’re doing this again, he isn’t going to spend the most of it second-guessing Kun’s words.

Kun swallows, then turns away. “I’m not sure,” he admits, “but I–don’t–like it when it’s weird. Between us.” He inhales sharply, “And you’re right, it’s not like we were best friends before–all this, but it wasn’t like we were nothing either.”

_Nothing,_ Youngho echoes.

“I know I sound like I’m just digging up things that don’t need to be dug up,” Kun sighs, a blend of confusion and frustration laced together, “but I don’t know–I’m just–unsettled, and I’m sorry for dragging you into this when you’ve already decided and I–”

He stops short in his words when Youngho moves to reach over him for the mouse resting on his desk. Youngho brings the monitor to life, feels Kun’s shallow breaths against his neck. Kun doesn’t question it, doesn’t shy away from how Youngho’s leaning over him to navigate through his desktop.

Youngho sifts through his folders of folders, until he gets to one buried deep, labeled with a simple asterisk.

He sits back against the bed, leaves the mouse hovered over the folder.

Kun waits, says when Youngho doesn’t, “This is–?”

Youngho’s never been good with words, but he’s always heard of how a picture speaks a thousand words.

He hopes it’s enough.

And Youngho finds enough in himself to reveal the lot of photographs he’s very abashedly hoarded of Kun over the past weeks. The folder springs to life–filling the screen with small thumbnails of Kun in the most ordinary settings, plays of shadow and light, some edited, others the perfect the way they were captured. It’s more or less a folder of thirty photographs Youngho’s revealed, the ones he’s kept for god knows whatever reason other than the plain fact that he can’t seem to delete them.

Kun’s jaw very loudly hits the ground.

Youngho’s heart is loud in his ears, watching Kun gape at the screen, eyes moving quick to scrutinize every single thumbnail. He seems all too frozen to react any other way, and it’s more than a reasonable amount of time that he’s clearing his throat.

“Can I–?” His hand hovers over the mouse.

Youngho nods, doubting his own abilities to keep his voice from shaking.

It’s both sheer embarrassment and hope that floods Youngho’s veins when Kun clicks on the very photograph. He flicks through them slowly, as if equally enamored by them as Youngho was. Most of the shots were taken from afar, the background blurred to focus completely on Kun and it’s the most Youngho can ever express about his tunnel vision when it comes to Kun.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, showing Kun these.

“Wow,” Kun says, almost breathless.

Youngho breathes. Some part of him believed Kun to be repulsed.

“When did you–” Kun flicks through the photographs, shakes his head, “I didn’t know.”

Youngho doesn’t know what to do with his hands, “I didn’t think I’d ever get to show these to anyone.”

That makes Kun turn, “What?”

“I–” Youngho grabs onto his knees, willing words to work, “I didn’t take them–with the intention of anyone getting to see them and I’m sorry–I didn’t know you didn’t like to be photographed, I–” The fire in his gut rushes up to the back of his neck, “When I capture others in moments like these, I’ve always enjoyed–seeing their reactions to themselves being photographed.”

Kun’s head tilts in question.

“I didn’t ever think I’d get to show these to you.”

“Then why’d you take them?”

It renders Youngho speechless. He stares at Kun, and Kun doesn’t flinch away this time. He’s fixed in his seat, gaze fervent enough to burn holes into the back of Youngho’s skull. There’s more than silence passing between them, more than palpable tension that’s always been there with Kun–it’s more now.

“Because I liked you,” Youngho says, embarrassed when it’s barely a whisper. He doesn’t blink, says again, says a little louder, with a little more resolve, “Because I like you, Kun.”

Youngho doesn’t know how long passes–it seems as though time isn’t ever relevant whenever he’s around Kun–but the loud _clunk_ from his desk chair throws him into disarray. Kun is out of his seat now, standing over Youngho with a look that has Youngho stuck to the edge of his mattress. He stands between Youngho’s opened legs, has Youngho stare up at him, and his eyes are so very bright.

With the given advantage, Kun lifts a hand, presses his palm to Youngho’s neck again.

The touch is tentative, just like it was weeks ago.

Youngho doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dare believe what he wants Kun to do.

“Do you still like me?” Kun whispers, hardly a breath. His eyes drop to Youngho’s lips and his tongue darts out to wet his own, question silent. His other hand finds its way to Youngho’s shoulder, and Youngho’s ready to wind his arms around Kun’s waist, “Do you?”

Youngho answers with a nod and realizes two beats later that Kun is kissing him. Kun kisses him– _kisses_ him–with lips Youngho’s been dreaming of, just a brush of their lips, delicately, carefully, and painfully long enough for Youngho to remember how to breathe.

Kun pulls away when he hears it, and Youngho can barely uncross his eyes.

“Is this okay?” Kun is whispering and his voice is rough like he can’t contain it either.

Youngho nods and his hands are on Kun’s hips, pressing lightly. He tilts his chin up and licks his lips, a glaring invitation to be kissed again. His eyes screw shut when Kun kisses him again, firmly this time, lips sliding together. He pulls Kun closer and deepens their kiss, hears the small gasp when he gets Kun close for his chest to press against Kun’s torso.

“–my god,” he whispers, breath mingling with Kun’s. It’s that familiar, pleasant smell of Kun’s strawberry body wash that surrounds him when he pulls away to breathe.

Kun’s equally breathless, lips kissed pink. He takes a few deep breaths, says nothing. Instead, he takes Youngho by the cheeks and kisses him again, chastely this time. He’s biting on his lip when he pulls away, watching Youngho with eyes too loving to not have Youngho’s chest flower with butterflies.

“I like you too,” Kun breathes. Then adds, “A lot.”

Youngho buries his nose in Kun’s chest, inhales as much as he can, “Enough to date me?”

“Yeah,” Kun whispers. His hair falls to cover his face when he looks down at Youngho, “More than enough.”

“And what about–” Youngho pulls back, reaches up to tuck a tuft of honey-brown hair behind Kun’s ear, leaves his hand to cup Kun’s cheek, “What about–everything else?”

Kun covers Youngho’s hand with his own, repeats Youngho’s own words, “We’ll work things out, you and I.”

“You and I,” Youngho agrees. And it’s another dam that breaks, that has Youngho standing so that he’s towering over Kun, collecting him in warm arms. He hides his face away, “My cheeks hurt from smiling.”

Kun’s laugh rumbles against Youngho’s chest, “So are mine.” He snakes his arms around Youngho’s neck, on tiptoes to hook his chin over Youngho’s shoulder, “This feels–surreal to me.”

“Hm,” Youngho hums, all too absorbed trying to breathe Kun in to be talking right now.

Even if he has to leave in a matter of months, if he could spend them capturing more photographs of Kun, if he could spend them with the boy that hasn’t left his heart nor mind in months, if he could spend them drowned in honey–Youngho would. He’d take all those months over nothing at all, he’d take the risk for many months after, he’d do anything for days with Kun, for days sweet, sweet, and sweeter.

“I have do have–one concern.”

Youngho hugs him a little tighter, motions for him to go ahead.

“What exactly–are we going to tell our friends?”

Youngho’s eyes snap open.

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the comments and love! ;-; it's my first time writing for this pairing so please go easy on me ;; 
> 
> thank you again to [@fullsun_shine](https://twitter.com/FullSun_SHINE) for requesting! i hope you like it ;;


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